


wounds need time to heal (but some never do)

by aelin6crows



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Champagne Problems, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Paris (City), Post-War, Self-Reflection, it fit, just because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelin6crows/pseuds/aelin6crows
Summary: She can see now that she wasn’t right for him, or him for her. But they tried, and they loved, and she couldn’t take it. She is still splintered by the war, by losing her parents. Everyone deals with things in different ways- she knows this- but it took trying to play the part of someone she is not to realise that. It took breaking her best friend’s heart.
Relationships: (mentioned) (past) Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 2





	wounds need time to heal (but some never do)

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii, I hope you enjoy this sad but kinda hopeful thing I made. I'm not really a Romione shipper- and this isn't really a Romione work- but I was listening the Champagne Problems by Taylor Swift and this jumped into my head, so I decided to write it.
> 
> thank you xx
> 
> Disclaimer: don't own it, obviously

She’s sat in the café below her flat, drinking an herbal tea- she’s gone through about fifteen different types so far. A piece of cake, unfinished, sits on the table next to a book split open in the middle. It’s early, between the times when office workers have marched into their buildings and tourists flood the streets.

The waitress drifts by with a coffee pot, a man shouts from the back of the café at a friend who has just walked through the door. Half the tables are full, most with couples crowded together over their cups and plates, eyes locked, hands locked. In love. There are others sat alone like her, either gazing into the distance or reading or writing or talking to the waitress or each other. Everyone fits in by not fitting in. She feels at home.

She looks out the window, her heart stops. Two heads, one dark haired, one redhead. They stand out, don’t match the scurry of those late to work. They’re blurry from this distance, or maybe that’s just her, but she flicks her hand and feels the unfamiliar shape of her new wand in her palm. She got it a couple of years ago, but even now she expects to find the leaves and vines of her old wand.

She refocuses, watches as the men on the other side of the street walk closer, and closer, and… past where she is. She shakes her head. They aren’t Harry and Ron. _(Hermione get a grip)._ She looks again, noticing what she missed- Harry is shorter, Ron taller, than the doubles before her. That shade of ginger is too light, and, _for God’s sake_ , Harry wears glasses. Is she going crazy, seeing them wherever she is?

She takes a sip of her tea, lukewarm and slightly bitter, and then gathers her hair into a bun. The corner of her page is folded over slightly, and then the book is swept into her charmed bag. She leaves money on the table, smiles at the waitress and the young man in the corner, just like she always does.

The street is empty, cars line both sides and block most of the pavement. There’s a faint layer of frost on the ground, but the cobblestones still click under her boots, even as her breath clouds with each exhale. She walks onto a bridge. Across it is a hotel with a family walking out. Her heart stops. _This could have been us,_ she thinks, _a daughter with red hair, a son with curls upon his head, Weasley freckles on both._ She walks towards them looking out onto the river, says _bonjour_ in a quiet voice.

There’s a newsagent in the middle of the square across the road, the streets have been steadily getting busier, cameras flashing, and a general chatter that comes from multiple languages been spoken on top of each other. Like instruments in an orchestra. The man in the booth is half asleep with his face propped up on one hand, the other twirls a penny, round and round and round. She gives him a smile (and it’s nearly real) and buys a newspaper- it will take her longer than an English one to read, but the French grounds her, makes her think of her mother. It means she won’t just absorb the information while thinking of something completely different.

She walks over to a vacant bench on the riverside. Paris is always so busy, no matter the day, or time of year, but she likes this area of the city, never too busy, and always peaceful even with the tourists. If she wants to get out she apparates out to countryside, finds a village where no one speaks English, or where there are no more than three shops. Somewhere where the only thing around for miles is a farm. A place she can talk to the stars.

She hardly uses magic anymore, and hasn’t stepped foot near _la Place Cachée_ , but, occasionally, when she’s been a few streets away from the entrance, she’s seen people in robes whispering and muttering to themselves as they watch the muggles walk by.

She looks down at the newspaper, but her eyes snag on the date in the top corner. It can’t be. It’s surely weeks away, she has time. But no, there it is in black and white, _Samedi 30 Septembre 2000_. She should be getting married this afternoon, and yet it feels like only yesterday she had taken off the diamond ring.

The day he proposed they’d gone for a picnic near the Burrow. He’d worn a buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up showing the brain scars on his arms. She’d worn a pretty pale pink summer dress that floated as her legs moved- she had felt like a fake, like she was lying with her whole being. But she had loved him, and he had loved her- she thought it would be enough.

The ring had been beautiful, a family heirloom from his grandmother, it was simple, not too extravagant, and it suited her perfectly- everyone said so. They went to get ice cream from a muggle shop in the village after, he had wanted to go to Fortescue’s, but she hated the crowds they drew while together.

She glances at her hand, at the thin pale band around her finger the ring had left. She wonders, distantly, if it will ever fade away, if when she tans again in summer that stripe will be kept or wiped out. Another mark to add to the collection growing on her skin. The failures and losses that are more than skin deep.

Like the way her muscles seize up whenever she stays still for too long, from the petrification in second year. The spot on her chest that glows every so often from absorbing too much time magic. How she can’t stand being in cold water because of the Black lake (she didn’t think it would remind her so much of being petrified, but it did), her teeth that don’t match her primary school pictures. The purple scar across her ribs and chest that twinges before storms, and a cut across her right shoulder from the night Dumbledore died. There’s a scar on her knee from when a girl at school pushed her off of a swing before she knew about magic which reminds her of her parents, and a scar on her hand from breaking a glass the night she removed herself from their memories.

And then, of course, there’s the scar on her neck, and the crude letters carved into her forearm. She dreams about that every night in some variation. Sometimes Malfoy identifies Harry, and he watches as he’s killed by Voldemort. Sometimes Ron or Harry replaces her under Bellatrix Lestrange, sometimes she’s left behind when they escape and Greyback makes good on his promises. Sometimes the events occur exactly as they did, and she still wakes in a cold sweat clutching her unfamiliar wand tightly in her fist. She wears long sleeves as much as she can in muggle Paris, doesn’t want the questioning looks from everyone who doesn’t understand.

She watches as an elderly couple walk hand in hand in front of her, the man uses a cane, the woman hunches over, but they smile together at the children running up and down, at the boats sailing past, at the sun shining down. They are content- she thinks she’s getting there, finally, on her own.

If she’d stayed, at this moment, Ginny would have been fussing with her hair, and her dress. There would have been butterflies in her stomach, and she would have been so happy. The wedding would be small, filled with the family she made, her friends- she doesn’t know what will happen if she goes back. The group has been fractured irrevocably since she left- she doesn’t regret it.

They’d danced in the kitchen the night she left. He’d come home from work to find her sitting on the sofa. She’s been crying all day, but she didn’t tell him, instead covering her splotchy face with a glamour and allowing herself to be swept into his arms one last time. His hair had burnt a vibrant red in the candlelight, and he’d started to cook one of her favourites from Mrs Weasley.

She broke his heart. Hermione Granger broke Ronald Weasley’s heart. _(She didn't regret it.)_

His face when she said she was leaving ripped into her soul, the agony, accusations, pleas, questions, all wrapped up into one heart-wrenching look in his eyes. _(Aren’t I enough? I thought we were happy?)_ She’d said goodbye with tears misting over her vision, and placed the ring back into his hand without looking. The prearranged portkey had whisked her away, alone, to her mum’s old flat in Paris where she had stayed.

A pigeon lands on the other end of the bench, she gets up and walks to the edge of the river, leans against the fencing. The water is still, peaceful, the boats drift up and down carrying people and cargo. She’s not been on one of the boats before, maybe that’s something to do tomorrow.

A family next to her are taking a picture together but the children keep arguing and pushing each other. She remembers him at eleven, a bit jealous and petty, mean to her at first- but then he became a protector- to her and Harry. He acted like a mother hen most of the time, she recalls with a fond smile.

She can see now that she wasn’t right for him, or him for her. But they tried, and they loved, and she couldn’t take it. She is still splintered by the war, by losing her parents. Everyone deals with things in different ways- she knows this- but it took trying to play the part of someone she is not to realise that. It took breaking her best friend’s heart.

She knows he will find someone perfect for him, they will play chess, obsess over quidditch and the Chudley Cannons together. They will share the cooking in ways that her ability to burn water didn’t really allow for. That person would be able to deal with his rare jealousy over Harry or his siblings much better than she ever did.

And that would leave Hermione on her own, having her own adventure to find herself. This new person in the shape of a bossy little know-it-all who entered a magical world no one expected her to be a part of, and made it her own. She would create an identity aside from the Golden Trio, and the Brightest Witch of her Age. She would be complete, and it would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So Samedi 30 Septembre 2000= Saturday 30 September 2000 (just in case you wanted to know) and I hope you liked this thing which is basically just having a fun little time in Hermione's head. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know anything and everything in the comments.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading <3 :)


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